The Irregular Captain
The young teenager called Captain smiled at the gaggle of ladies who walked past, giggling to each other about how cute he looked with his long coat and mop of black hair. "He's like a pirate," one squeaked. Definitely tipsy, the lot of them, and headed for a long night of drunken dancing, quick sex, and sore feet in the morning with an aching head. If he were smart and careful, he could probably make a small profit, but the fact that there were five of them made him nervous. Too many variables with that many.
Ah, but there was a possibility, walking along the other side of the street. At least worth a try at the pockets. Besides, walking his circuit of the clubs was getting boring. He wanted some action, and needed some practice.
Captain quietly and nonchalantly trailed the man he’d spotted. Dressed in a fancy black suit, complete with hat and walking stick, the man had to be a little well to do and out for a night... except he wasn’t actually going into any clubs. He seemed more interested in the people on the street, simply walking, enjoying the varied looks people gave him. No, enjoying was too strong a word. Amused, more like.
All anyone would have seen was a young teen hurrying past the man in front of him. Most people would never even have noticed, going on with their lives, and not bothering to watch the boy head toward an alley. It’s perfectly understandable, then, that Captain was shocked to find the man’s firm grip on his wrist, arm twisted behind his back to keep him from running.
“I would like that back, please.”
The small envelope was produced and dropped to the ground. The man’s grip held firm as he bent down to pick it up, sliding it into an inner coat pocket. “Impressive,” he commented. “I have no intention of getting you into any sort of trouble. If I let you go, will you do me the favor of staying a moment so we may talk?” At the sight of a slow and mildly confused nod, the man released his hold. Captain resisted the urge to rub his aching arm as a hawkish gaze swept up and down him. “I always find it interesting to see how little military uniform has changed since the twentieth century.”
Captain blinked. “What?”
“Your coat, Captain. It is a naval coat, of the style referred to as a ‘bridge coat’. An officer’s uniform, the alternative service dress for cold weather if I’m not mistaken. Thigh length, buttons that at one time shone gold -”
“Why’d you call me Captain?”
The man quirked a brow with a hint of a grin. “That is the rank insignia on your epaulettes” Seeing mild confusion, he explained, “The straps on your shoulders. Gold star and four stripes.”
“Oh. I thought you knew me, for a sec.”
Now the man blinked. “You don’t seriously mean you go by the name ‘Captain?’”
Placing his hands on his hips with a swagger, the boy answered, “Yeah. What of it?”
The man smirked at the sudden image of a young pirate. The sleeves of the coat were too long, so the gold trimmed cuffs had been turned up, making it look a little like a pirate coat of old. The pale shirt underneath and the worn boots on the pickpocket’s feet added to the impression. “Where did you get it?”
With a hint of a sarcastic sneer, Captain replied. “Dad must have been in the Navy.”
“You don’t know?”
Captain shrugged, uncomfortable now. He didn’t like talking about the past, and the look this guy was giving him was too... intense. “I’ve always had it. Don’t remember my folks.”
“Where do you live?”
“With whoever takes me for the night.” It was spoken as a challenge.
The man was perfectly expressionless. “I see. Tonight, that will be me.”
Captain’s brow rose.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” the man rolled his eyes and started to walk away, “Just come along.”
Puzzled, Captain walked along beside the man. He really didn’t know what the stranger wanted from him. At first he’d thought - but those rolled eyes suggested otherwise. He hadn’t called the cops or made any sort of fuss. What was going on?
“You got a name?” Captain asked.
“Sherlock.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way. Sherlock led them out of the Corporate sector, a small surprise to Captain, and down to Break Street.
“You walk this much all the time?”
“Yes. As you cannot drive, I imagine you do so as well.”
“Sure, but most people who can afford a car don’t.”
Sherlock sort of half grinned. “If I could afford one, I wouldn't be able to drive it even if I had the desire to.”
“Oh.” Dressed like a Corporate, wrong side of the border, can’t drive, no tech to be seen at all. Who the hell was this guy?
They stopped at number 122. “I must say,” Sherlock commented as he unlocked the door (with an old fashioned key!), “I cannot decide whether I am relieved or disappointed that you do not use the parlance of your profession.” Captain stared at him, questioningly. “The vernacular. A way or manner of speaking -”
“I know what parlance means,” Captain crossed his arms. “What are you getting at?”
Sherlock did that little half grin again. Was he capable of being anything other than mildly amused? “I was referring to your resemblance to popular depictions of a pirate. As you did not know what rank your epaulettes signified, I imagine you gained your nickname through this?”
“I’ve always been called Captain. Never knew why.”
Sherlock's head tilted slightly to the side. “You do not like to discuss your past.”
“No, I don’t.”
There was a slight twitch of a grin at the corner of the strange man’s mouth. Not the half-grin of before, but smaller, and somehow a little sympathetic. “Neither do I. Shall we?” He gestured that Captain should enter.
Shrugging his shoulders and sighing in resignation, Captain said, “What the hell. Sure.” They stepped inside, and Captain froze.
Books. So. Many. Books.
“They must have cost a small fortune,” Captain muttered as he wandered toward the shelves.
“I did not pay a single credit for any of them,” Sherlock said as he put away his hat and stick, then went to the fireplace. “Of course, the collection is somewhat eclectic because of it. Books are not easy to come by.”
“Ha, no kidding,” Captain turned to face his bizarre host, jaw dropping. “What are you doing?”
“Lighting a fire. I would have thought that to be obvious.”
“You have a functioning fireplace?”
“Clearly.”
Captain’s eyes narrowed. “What do you do?”
“You are just now asking that question?”
“You’ve got a ton of books, a real fireplace, dress like a Corporate, but you’re on the wrong side of the border for so much money and eccentrics. I wanna know why, and I wanna know what you want from me.”
“I want to hire you,” he said, straightening and picking up a pipe from the shelf on top of the fireplace.
Captain’s suspicion didn’t ease up. “To do what?”
“I'm a detective,” Sherlock said as smoke started to swirl around his head, “and I have developed a small network of teenagers and children who act as my eyes and ears around the City. I call them my Irregulars. I want you to join them.”
“So I would do what, exactly?”
“Gather information, perform whatever small tasks I may ask of you. Delivering messages, spying on certain persons, report any and all activity of interest you may observe from day to day.”
"What's in it for me?"
“You will have a job. I will pay you. You will also have a place to stay each night. There is an apartment two of my Irregulars stay in that is becoming something of a gathering place for the others. They would not object to you staying there if the need ever arises.” He smiled, just a little, but genuinely this time. “Somewhat regular pay, and a place to call home. Do we have an accord?”
Captain didn’t even have to think twice. “If you just asked if we got a deal, the answer is yes.”
Sherlock smirked, walking over to where Captain stood by the bookshelf to shake his hand. “Excellent. There is one, very small requirement.” At Captain’s sigh, he assured him, “It is quite simple.”
“What is it, then?”
Sherlock selected a book off the shelf over Captain’s head and handed it to him. “Read this.”
Captain shrugged and glanced at the title. Treasure Island.
The young teenager called Captain smiled at the gaggle of ladies who walked past, giggling to each other about how cute he looked with his long coat and mop of black hair. "He's like a pirate," one squeaked. Definitely tipsy, the lot of them, and headed for a long night of drunken dancing, quick sex, and sore feet in the morning with an aching head. If he were smart and careful, he could probably make a small profit, but the fact that there were five of them made him nervous. Too many variables with that many.
Ah, but there was a possibility, walking along the other side of the street. At least worth a try at the pockets. Besides, walking his circuit of the clubs was getting boring. He wanted some action, and needed some practice.
Captain quietly and nonchalantly trailed the man he’d spotted. Dressed in a fancy black suit, complete with hat and walking stick, the man had to be a little well to do and out for a night... except he wasn’t actually going into any clubs. He seemed more interested in the people on the street, simply walking, enjoying the varied looks people gave him. No, enjoying was too strong a word. Amused, more like.
All anyone would have seen was a young teen hurrying past the man in front of him. Most people would never even have noticed, going on with their lives, and not bothering to watch the boy head toward an alley. It’s perfectly understandable, then, that Captain was shocked to find the man’s firm grip on his wrist, arm twisted behind his back to keep him from running.
“I would like that back, please.”
The small envelope was produced and dropped to the ground. The man’s grip held firm as he bent down to pick it up, sliding it into an inner coat pocket. “Impressive,” he commented. “I have no intention of getting you into any sort of trouble. If I let you go, will you do me the favor of staying a moment so we may talk?” At the sight of a slow and mildly confused nod, the man released his hold. Captain resisted the urge to rub his aching arm as a hawkish gaze swept up and down him. “I always find it interesting to see how little military uniform has changed since the twentieth century.”
Captain blinked. “What?”
“Your coat, Captain. It is a naval coat, of the style referred to as a ‘bridge coat’. An officer’s uniform, the alternative service dress for cold weather if I’m not mistaken. Thigh length, buttons that at one time shone gold -”
“Why’d you call me Captain?”
The man quirked a brow with a hint of a grin. “That is the rank insignia on your epaulettes” Seeing mild confusion, he explained, “The straps on your shoulders. Gold star and four stripes.”
“Oh. I thought you knew me, for a sec.”
Now the man blinked. “You don’t seriously mean you go by the name ‘Captain?’”
Placing his hands on his hips with a swagger, the boy answered, “Yeah. What of it?”
The man smirked at the sudden image of a young pirate. The sleeves of the coat were too long, so the gold trimmed cuffs had been turned up, making it look a little like a pirate coat of old. The pale shirt underneath and the worn boots on the pickpocket’s feet added to the impression. “Where did you get it?”
With a hint of a sarcastic sneer, Captain replied. “Dad must have been in the Navy.”
“You don’t know?”
Captain shrugged, uncomfortable now. He didn’t like talking about the past, and the look this guy was giving him was too... intense. “I’ve always had it. Don’t remember my folks.”
“Where do you live?”
“With whoever takes me for the night.” It was spoken as a challenge.
The man was perfectly expressionless. “I see. Tonight, that will be me.”
Captain’s brow rose.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” the man rolled his eyes and started to walk away, “Just come along.”
Puzzled, Captain walked along beside the man. He really didn’t know what the stranger wanted from him. At first he’d thought - but those rolled eyes suggested otherwise. He hadn’t called the cops or made any sort of fuss. What was going on?
“You got a name?” Captain asked.
“Sherlock.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way. Sherlock led them out of the Corporate sector, a small surprise to Captain, and down to Break Street.
“You walk this much all the time?”
“Yes. As you cannot drive, I imagine you do so as well.”
“Sure, but most people who can afford a car don’t.”
Sherlock sort of half grinned. “If I could afford one, I wouldn't be able to drive it even if I had the desire to.”
“Oh.” Dressed like a Corporate, wrong side of the border, can’t drive, no tech to be seen at all. Who the hell was this guy?
They stopped at number 122. “I must say,” Sherlock commented as he unlocked the door (with an old fashioned key!), “I cannot decide whether I am relieved or disappointed that you do not use the parlance of your profession.” Captain stared at him, questioningly. “The vernacular. A way or manner of speaking -”
“I know what parlance means,” Captain crossed his arms. “What are you getting at?”
Sherlock did that little half grin again. Was he capable of being anything other than mildly amused? “I was referring to your resemblance to popular depictions of a pirate. As you did not know what rank your epaulettes signified, I imagine you gained your nickname through this?”
“I’ve always been called Captain. Never knew why.”
Sherlock's head tilted slightly to the side. “You do not like to discuss your past.”
“No, I don’t.”
There was a slight twitch of a grin at the corner of the strange man’s mouth. Not the half-grin of before, but smaller, and somehow a little sympathetic. “Neither do I. Shall we?” He gestured that Captain should enter.
Shrugging his shoulders and sighing in resignation, Captain said, “What the hell. Sure.” They stepped inside, and Captain froze.
Books. So. Many. Books.
“They must have cost a small fortune,” Captain muttered as he wandered toward the shelves.
“I did not pay a single credit for any of them,” Sherlock said as he put away his hat and stick, then went to the fireplace. “Of course, the collection is somewhat eclectic because of it. Books are not easy to come by.”
“Ha, no kidding,” Captain turned to face his bizarre host, jaw dropping. “What are you doing?”
“Lighting a fire. I would have thought that to be obvious.”
“You have a functioning fireplace?”
“Clearly.”
Captain’s eyes narrowed. “What do you do?”
“You are just now asking that question?”
“You’ve got a ton of books, a real fireplace, dress like a Corporate, but you’re on the wrong side of the border for so much money and eccentrics. I wanna know why, and I wanna know what you want from me.”
“I want to hire you,” he said, straightening and picking up a pipe from the shelf on top of the fireplace.
Captain’s suspicion didn’t ease up. “To do what?”
“I'm a detective,” Sherlock said as smoke started to swirl around his head, “and I have developed a small network of teenagers and children who act as my eyes and ears around the City. I call them my Irregulars. I want you to join them.”
“So I would do what, exactly?”
“Gather information, perform whatever small tasks I may ask of you. Delivering messages, spying on certain persons, report any and all activity of interest you may observe from day to day.”
"What's in it for me?"
“You will have a job. I will pay you. You will also have a place to stay each night. There is an apartment two of my Irregulars stay in that is becoming something of a gathering place for the others. They would not object to you staying there if the need ever arises.” He smiled, just a little, but genuinely this time. “Somewhat regular pay, and a place to call home. Do we have an accord?”
Captain didn’t even have to think twice. “If you just asked if we got a deal, the answer is yes.”
Sherlock smirked, walking over to where Captain stood by the bookshelf to shake his hand. “Excellent. There is one, very small requirement.” At Captain’s sigh, he assured him, “It is quite simple.”
“What is it, then?”
Sherlock selected a book off the shelf over Captain’s head and handed it to him. “Read this.”
Captain shrugged and glanced at the title. Treasure Island.
